


The Minor Fall, The Major Lift

by Eastmava



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Brief mentions of gore, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-24 15:47:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9768917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eastmava/pseuds/Eastmava
Summary: -“No,” he denies. “I will not kiss you goodbye Ren,” although his lips ache with the thought of it, even though his fingers would feel so good, so perfect, curled in Ren’s hair, moving him this way and that, guiding Ren’s plush mouth. “I will not kiss you goodbye, because you will come home to me.” Ren leans more heavily into the hand still cupping his face.“Yes,” he promises, “yes. I will. I will.” -Hux does Ren a favor.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thegoodlannister](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegoodlannister/gifts).



> This story is a birthday gift for the lovely thegoodlannister. He's a tremendous author and a wonderful person. I hope he doesn't mind me calling him a friend despite the brief amount of time we've know each other.
> 
> This strays quite a bit from the prompt he gave me, but there's still a big helping of hurt/comfort, so I hope he enjoys it anyway.
> 
> A very special thanks to obsessions-and-dreams and helliskylux, for holding my hand and telling me that the stories I want to write are worth telling. Thank you both.

It starts after Starkiller.

 

No, it starts _on_ Starkiller, with the ground rending open beneath his feet, every step more treacherous than the last, the whirling snow making it almost impossible to see a single step ahead of him, the fierce wind battering against him, a howl like cackling laughter mocking him, screaming in harmony with the dying groans of the planet as he focuses on the tracker in his hand and tells himself his steps are shaky because the very earth beneath him is falling away, not because of fear.

 

It starts when he picks up another sound, barely audible over the wind, over the destruction of his life’s work. It’s a whine, fading and crescendoing, almost lilting, and he can barely make out a spot of black ahead of him. He fights his way to it, breathes deep in relief air filled with the scent of sulphur when he stumbles close enough to see it is Ren.

 

The unidentifiable noise is Ren speaking; to the Force, to Supreme Leader, to a ghost, to an unknown void, Hux can’t say. He’s lying in his own blood and the heat of it, still steadily flowing from his side, has melted some of the snow. He can’t make out the words until he crouches down, touches Ren’s face to see if he reacts. Ren opens his eyes at the touch but they’re unfocused, wild, delirious.

 

This close he can hear Ren speaking, can hear Ren begging.

 

“...no, please, it hurts, let me die, I can’t, I can’t, leave me here, I’m so cold, I couldn’t, I tried…”

 

He shouldn’t be able to lift Ren, but his life has always been dedicated to doing what he shouldn’t be able to manage, and when he gets Ren’s knees settled in the crook of his arm, his other behind his back, he realizes that beneath the sodden, gore-soaked robes there’s a waist too thin, hips too prominent, to match the breadth of Ren’s shoulders.

 

Ren has stopped speaking, voice now cracking on low moans of anguish, face twisted in a way which pulls the wound on his face, cracks open the scabbing blood so more flows freely. He stumbles once and the jolt must startle Ren because he blinks his eyes sluggishly, and as they sharpen on Hux he tries to struggle, to wrest his way from Hux’s hold, but there’s no strength left in him, only a pathetic twitch of arm and jerk of his legs as he tries to squirm away.  

 

“Please. Please, I can’t-”

 

“Hush, Ren,” and it sounds scolding, although he’s startled to find he doesn’t want to be.

 

When they finally make it to the transport shuttle, waiting on quaking ground, he ignores all offers to help carry Ren and instead walks him up the ramp and deposits him on the small cot the medic had the forethought to bring himself.

 

As Starkiller shudders and collapses outside of the viewport he touches a curl, stiff with blood and sweat, off of Ren’s cheek from where it has stuck to the oozing wound on his face.

 

How fitting, he thinks, that he only discovers himself capable of such tenderness against a background of chaos and destruction.

 

~

 

Once he’s onboard Finalizer he gives the order to set course for Snoke’s citadel.

 

Then, for the first time in decades with nothing else to demand his attention, he goes and sits at Ren’s bedside.

 

At first he thinks it must be a trick of the light, a simple matter of Ren, pale even against the contrast of white sheets, a bandage wrapped around his face, dwarfed by the bed and the discordantly beeping equipment, thinks he must have been mistaken, because Snoke’s apprentice, his star pupil, surely can’t have the drawn look of a man who starves far too frequently.

 

But Ren’s body is as slight as he had thought, the sheets folded halfway down showing clearly a waist too thin, any muscles he has delineated more by a lack of fat than any actual mass.

 

He holds his face in his hands and laughs, a skeletal noise which could too easily be mistaken for a sob.

 

“I came here to wallow in self pity,” he confesses to the unconscious form before him. “Only you, Ren, could distract me from that goal by demanding my attention instead, even while asleep.”

 

~

 

He doesn’t know if he sleeps.

 

He drifts, unmoored with nothing to focus on but his own unclear future, stares at white walls and white sheets until they become meaningless, fade into nothingness. His eyes drift shut but he’s unsure if it’s seconds or hours before they open again with nothing to mark the passing time.

 

Ren jolts back into consciousness with a violent jerk of his body, eyes wild and untamed, his leg twitching as though he’s attempting to escape the danger his mind must still think himself in.

 

“Ren!” He barks, and winces at how loud his voice is in the room. He has had nothing else to do but study Ren’s beaten body, the waxy sallowness of his complexion and the skin pulled too taut over his ribs evidence of the poor care he takes of himself, of a hard-lived life. The wounds on his face and side may be the worst of the damage, but those can be fixed with bacta and bandages. If he has any capacity for pity, for _mourning_ still left, instead of ground out of him under his father’s heel and the now almost impossible to shoulder burden of his rank, he thinks he should waste it on Ren instead of himself.

 

“Ren,” he tries again, voice lower. He settles two fingers against the inside of Ren’s wrist, the ivory pale skin with it’s webwork of veins a stark contrast to the creaking leather of his gloves. “It’s alright, you’re safe.”

 

Ren looks at him, and when his eyes focus on Hux he tenses even more.

 

“Come to mock me, General?” Ren’s voice is scratchy and his lips stick together, gummy and uncomfortable with dryness.

 

“No, Ren,” he says as he moves to pick up the cup of water helpfully left on the bedside table. “No, I’m simply here to check on you.” Ren eyes his suspiciously but he shudders when Hux curls a hand behind his neck and props him up, offers him the straw. He sucks down the water gratefully, greedily, even though it must be lukewarm and taste of the chlorine tablets starships are forced to use to clean their recycled water supply. “More?,” he asks when the glass is empty.

 

Ren hesitates before he gives a short nod.

 

He refills the glass with the pitcher placed on the same table as the glass, lets Ren drink his fill before he sits it back down, gently lowering Ren’s head back down to the flattened pillow, and starts talking.

 

“My orders are to take you to Supreme Leader.” Ren turns his head and closes his eyes. He doesn’t miss his wince of pain. “We will be there in two days.”

 

“No!,” Ren shouts, yanks his head back around to stare at Hux as he grasps tightly onto the hand Hux has left lying on the bed, close to his side. “Please,” he begs, his grip tight. “Please, you can’t. You don’t understand what he’ll do to me!”

 

He’s stunned, shocked speechless at the tears suddenly streaming from Ren’s eyes, watches them pool and soak into the bandages on his face.

 

“Please!” Ren begs again. “I can’t-”

 

“Ren!” He attempts to pull his hand free but Ren clutches it harder, traps it against his heaving chest as his face twists with the force of his sobs.

 

“Please,” he pleads, his voice small, barely a whisper as he fights to talk over his tears. “Please, you can’t. _I don’t want to be in pain anymore._ ” Another cry wrenches its way free from his throat and his entire body trembles as he hiccups _please, please, please, you can’t._

 

He stares at the wretched, broken creature before him, so desperate to avoid his master that he would beg a man who can barely be called an ally.

 

He allows himself one moment, one deep breath, one slow blink of his eyes, as he makes his decision.

 

“Ren,” he commands, voice steady. “Let me go.”

 

Ren is past words, only holds his hand tighter as he cries harder.

 

“Ren,” he says again, leans down close enough he can smell the copper scent of blood still crusted in Ren’s hair. “Ren,” he whispers fiercely. “I need you to let me go so I can go break the hyperdrive.”

 

Ren is still quaking with the force of his sobs, but the words must register because he stutters in a breath, lets out a meek “What?”

 

“I need to go disable the hyperdrive myself, because I can’t trust anyone else to do it without damaging the ship entirely. It should slow our time to about five weeks. I’m sorry, but that’s all the time I can give you.”

 

His crying has slowed, and while his body still shivers with repressed sobs, they are fewer as he comes to understand Hux’s words. He flexes his hold on Hux’s hand before he lets it go, but when Hux turns to walk away he grabs it again, pulls on it so sharply Hux stumbles.

 

“I’ll, I’ll protect you,” he offers, the words an unsteady tumble off his tongue. “From, from Snoke. I’ll make sure he doesn’t f-find out.”

 

The thought makes him feel suddenly sick. If Snoke were to force his way into his mind…

 

But he looks at Ren, red feathering into the wrappings on his face, he must have pulled the slice open with his crying, breath still hitching, the features which betray his youth, and finds all he can do is offer a weary smile.

 

~

 

He doesn’t visit Ren again while he’s in medbay, though he receives daily updates to his datapad. On the day Ren is released he goes to his quarters after his shift and drinks the most expensive wine he has, a wine he had intended to celebrate Starkiller’s success with, straight from the bottle as he sits on his bed and tries to drown the thought that if he hadn’t walked to the bowels of the Finalizer and wrenched open control panels to mutilate his own ship Ren would have had eight fewer days in medbay, that Hux would have delivered him to Snoke with wounds that still bled.

 

He drinks until he doesn’t think of how small Ren is beneath his ragged robes, the cracked sound of Ren’s voice begging to be left for dead on Starkiller. Drinks until he can’t remember the way Ren had clutched his hand as he begged for mercy, the overwhelming fear in his eyes at the thought of being brought to his master.

 

He swallows great swigs of the best vintage he has ever had until the room spins, until sweat has soaked the underarms of his grey tank, and all he can think of is Ren’s stuttered promise to protect him.

 

He wakes with a headache that pierces through his skull, breath so rancid the smell of it churns his already shaky stomach, and the overwhelming urge to check on Ren.

 

He requisitions painkillers to be delivered to his quarters from Medical and staggers into his ‘fresher, gulps water straight from the spray until he feels it sloshing in his stomach then scrubs his hair clean.

 

By the time he’s scraping a layer of stubble off his cheeks the door beeps with a droid delivering his pain medication. He swallows the two pills, adjusts his uniform, then heads to the bridge, right on time and looking none the worse for wear.

 

The curse of being the General of a hand-picked, competent crew is that if he has no other projects to occupy his time he’s rather extraneous on the bridge. It was something he appreciated while constructing Starkiller, since it gave him time to schedule meetings and planning sessions, or even to simply allow his mind to work on solutions to some nagging problem.

 

But now, with a crew fully capable of running his ship with no real input from him he finds himself standing with his back stiff and straight, arms crossed behind him, as he tries to ignore the headache which seems determined to rattle is brain loose from it’s moorings and furiously tries to think of anything but the shake in Ren’s voice when he said the word _please._

 

By the time he is drinking his third cup of caff purely out of the need to do something he reasons that while his ship may be running perfectly, as general it is his duty to oversee not just The Finalizer, but also the personnel aboard it, and that includes Ren.

 

He hands the bridge off and and winds his way through the labyrinth corridors until he stands outside of Ren’s quarters, hand raised to the control pad to request entrance before his resolve falters. Whatever uneasy truce they came to in medbay, an agreement forged from the hot, wet drip of Ren’s tears and a pity he would’ve thought himself incapable of until that moment, will not necessarily translate into him being welcomed into Ren’s space.

 

He shakes himself, reminds himself that it was his orders that wiped the Republic from the galaxy, regardless of what happened after, and that he will not cower before a door on his own damn ship. He reaches for the pad again, but instead of requesting entry he taps in his bypass code instead and smiles in satisfaction as the door slides open.

 

The room is dark, lit only with the sputtering light of a single candle, and before his eyes adjust he thinks Ren is not there, but the flame flickers, casting a brief light to a part of the floor previously dark, and his eyes catch on Ren, collapsed on the ground, curled on his side and unmoving.

 

“Ren,” he shouts as he dashes through the door, and even as he’s sinking to his knees Ren groans, eyes fluttering.

 

“H-Hux?,” he asks, confused.

 

“Maker, Ren,” he swallows the rush of embarrassment at his panicked tone. “What happened?” He helps Ren sit, braces an arm against his back and winces at the stain of crimson on the fresh gauze at his face. “What happened? You need to go to medbay.”

 

“I’m fine,” Ren grits even as he sags against the brace of Hux’s hold, exhausted from the mere act of sitting up. He attempts to stand but a firm hand to his shoulder pushes him back down.

 

“Tell me what happened.”

 

“I don’t remember.” Ren shakes his head and Hux wrinkles his nose at the smell of dirty hair. He obviously hasn’t washed it since being released, and Hux would bet his command that his officers in medbay are too frightened of Ren to attempt it. “I was training-”

 

“You were training?” He almost drops Ren, walks away- he broke the hyperdrive, overloaded circuits in such a way that they were irreparable, only replaceable, on the most expensive piece of equipment on the ship so Ren could put off training- but Ren flinches, curls an arm over his injure side and ducks his head so the tender skin of his face is turned away. His stomach lurches when he realizes Ren is bracing for a blow, for a strike, and trying to minimize the damage, and he fears briefly he’s going to bring up whatever wine and caff settle uneasy in his stomach.

 

Ren winces again when he brings a hand up, but he smoothes it through ratty, tangled hair, follows through with the motion until his hand is on Ren’s chin and he can use it to turn his face. “Why were you training?,” he asks, softer. “You’re still recovering.”

 

“I need to be stronger.”

 

“You told me you didn’t want to be in pain anymore.” Ren nods, slow, ashamed, and takes a great breath which verges on a sob.

 

“I don’t. _I don’t_. But it’s strengthens my connection to the Force. It’s weakness.”

 

He didn’t cry at the loss of Starkiller. He had no tears when his father died. Had stood stone faced when his attempts to track down his mother, the one person he thinks ever bothered to love him, had turned up her name and the date of her death.

 

But now, with Ren frail in his arms, only able to stand with Hux’s shoulder tucked under him for support as he walks him to the refresher, he blinks back the stinging bite of tears from his eyes.

 

He settles Ren on the rim of his tub and when he asks about a first aid kit he gets a hazy wave in a vague direction. A little scouting turns it up, standard issue, and either Ren is diligent about restocking it or he doesn’t bother to patch himself up when he should. He suspects he knows which one it is.

 

“Take your shirt off,” he commands, then turns to help as soon as he realizes he has just asked an injured man without full range of movement to strip. His mouth goes dry when he sees Ren struggling to do so, and a thought flickers through his mind-

 

_Ren, hale and hearty before him, with corded muscles on his arms and long legs, a layers of fat padding the lines of his ribs. Stripping under Hux’s scrutiny, slowly revealing himself because Hux has ordered him to. Happy to do so, because Hux has ordered him to. Not chafing under harsh reigns, but blossoming under a firm hand, a firmer voice that to him is law, is both punishment and praise-_

 

before he swallows the thought and steps forward to help wrest the shirt off.

 

He’s grateful when the bandage on Ren’s side is only flecked with spots of blood. No real damage done. He discards it on the floor and lays a hand close, feeling for any tell-tale heat of infection, but the skin looks healthy. Pink and raw, but healing.

 

“Pain is not a weakness, Ren,” he starts, tries to keep his voice steady and soothing. “But bearing it is not a sign of strength.” He busies himself with applying a new bandage so he doesn’t have to look into Ren’s young face (and oh, how his enemies would laugh, to see that all it takes to bring the General to his knees, to reduce him to a coward, is this poor, aching boy). “Suffering may sire strength, but it will always beget more suffering.”

 

Ren is staring at him openly, mouth open, and he wonders, perhaps delirious, perhaps still drunk from last night, if Ren has always had a chipped tooth.

 

“Thank you,” he whispers.

 

Hux nods. “If something hurts you come to me next time. I’d like to avoid a repeat of this.”

 

Ren doesn’t say anything so he stands, gathers the detritus to throw away and hoists Ren up, helps him to his bed. He pauses at the door. “Join me for dinner tonight. In my quarters”

 

It’s not a quite a request, not quite a demand.

 

Ren nods.

 

~

 

Ren turns up at his door with his hair still unwashed but thankfully not bleeding.

 

Hux ushers him over to his desk where he’s pulled another chair up, the plates already laid out. Ren tucks in instantly, great forkfuls of the bland food disappearing into his mouth at a hurried pace. By the time he traverses around his desk and takes his own seat a visible portion of Ren’s plate has been cleared.

 

“Ren,” he chides gently, and can’t help the chuckle when Ren looks up, a mouthful of food tucked into the corner of his cheek like some rodent. “Slow down,” he says. “I won’t take it away from you.” Ren gives a sheepish nod and chews, swallows, before picking up a more modest bite on his fork.

 

He asks Ren questions about his training, about the Knights of Ren, scrambles to find anything for conversation, and receives one word answers for his troubles. Eventually, he concedes defeat and focuses on working his way through his own plate of food.

 

When Ren finishes he stands abruptly. “Thank you,” he says. Pauses. “For dinner,” he clarifies. Hux nods and if he were alone he’d reach up and rub his temples in an attempt to banish the linger vestiges of the headache that has plagued him all day. But he’s not alone, and when he looks up Ren is still standing right beside his chair, shifting his weight back and forth in what he first thinks is an effort to keep pressure off his injured side, but a glance to Ren’s too-revealing face tells him that Ren is nervous, waiting permission to ask a question.

 

“Is there anything else?”

 

“Could I, do you think..” he trails off, glances down and seems to find some resolve in the tops of his dusty boots. “Could I join you again tomorrow?”

 

He blinks.

 

“You want to?”

 

“Yes,” Ren replies, earnest. “I’m used to eating alone. It was nice. Unless, you’re busy, or you don’t want-”

 

“Ren,” he interrupts. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

 

~   

 

When Ren shows up the next night he reevaluates his plans for the evening because there’s something he really needs to address.

 

“Follow me,” he instructs, and heads to the refresher. Ren follows him, confused, but a measured half step behind- a pity, he thinks, that he will never have the chance to train Ren to be an officer, the perfect match of his stride to Hux’s would be a sight to behold as they strode along the bridge together, in uniform.

 

“Hux?” He asks, unsure.

 

“Your hair, Ren. It needs to be washed. I can smell it from here.”

 

He looks toward the ground, a blush high on his cheeks, crawling up to the tips of his ear which poke through the matted curls. “I’m sorry,” he offers softly, meekly. “I can’t reach, with my side. And I can’t get my face wet.”

 

Hux lets out a slow breath. He figured as much, recalls how Ren had struggled to remove his shirt yesterday. He received the report from medical that they had recommended removing the bandage on his face but keeping the area dry.

 

He steps out of the cramped room, snags the high-backed chair at his desk and carries it back in, settles it in front of the sink. “Sit, Ren. I’m going to help you.”

 

Ren is biting his lip, clearly uncomfortable, but does as he’s told.

 

He rolls up his sleeves and twists on the faucets, lets the water warm before tipping Ren’s head back and cupping water to pour over his hair. Ren gasps at the first touch of fingers to his scalp. “Too cold?”

 

“No,” Ren shakes his head as much as Hux’s hands allow. “No, it, it feels nice,” he says low, a confession.

 

He hums in response. When he’s satisfied Ren’s hair is damp enough he fetches the shampoo from his ‘fresher, the same standard cleanser every officer is provided. It has a scent which is half mint, half industrial solvent, but it lathers nicely when he scrubs it through Ren’s hair.

 

Ren’s eyes droop closed and he takes the time to study his features. He had seen Ren unmasked before, a face too young with eyes too sad and a nose he’s certain people had once told the poor boy he’d grow into. The scar oddly suits him, lends a deadly promise to features it would be hard to take seriously otherwise.

 

Ren gasps out a high little whimper when Hux’s fingers yank on a tangle, his full lips parting, and if Hux were a better man he wouldn’t be overcome with thoughts of what other noises he could coax from Ren.

 

It would be such a simple thing too. The way Ren presses into his touch, the very fact that the boy is even here speaks to how lonely he must be. Tempting Ren to his bed-

 

No. _No. He won’t._

 

He forces the thought aside and focuses on washing the suds from Ren’s hair.

 

After he drapes a towel around Ren’s shoulders to catch the drip-drip-drip of water they return to their ignored dinners, now cold.

 

Ren seems perfectly content with the slowly congealing meal, although he eats slower than last night. There’s still no conversation, but he occasionally catches Ren looking at him, and when Ren finishes before him again he stays seated until Hux is done then asks in his odd, stilted way if he can come again tomorrow.

 

The next night he has a game of sabacc set up, unable to contemplate another silent meal but unwilling to deny Ren the company (to deny himself Ren’s company). Ren, he discovers, is a skilled player, but there’s a sadness which darkens his face when Hux tells him so.

 

The night after that he sets up his chess board.

 

~

 

“You’re agitated,” Ren greets.

 

“Yes,” he sighs, sitting down heavily in his chair. “Yes, I’m agitated.”

 

“All day,” Ren says, stepping close. “I could sense it.”

 

“You read my thoughts?,” he accuses, suddenly defensive.

 

Does Ren know? Does he know that after he leaves Hux lays on his bed, stripped to just his tank, and takes himself in hand as he thinks about Ren? Thinks of the gauntness which has faded from Ren’s face over the past few weeks and wonders what the extra layer of bulk must look like beneath his robes. Magnificent, he’s sure. Wonders if the rounding of Ren’s cheeks means there’s a fleshiness now to his thighs that Hux could bite his adoration into, a give to his hips Hux could press greedy fingers against.

 

“Not like you’re thinking,” Ren tells him. “If I was taking your thoughts unwillingly you’d know. It’s more skimming the surface for moods.” He looks away, bashful. “It’s strongest if I’m in the same room, but I’ve become accustomed to your Force signature, so I can pick them up from across the ship.”

 

“So you don’t get thoughts?”

 

“Only if you project them to me.” Ren smiles softly, and like a punch to the gut he realizes he’s going to miss seeing those smiles. “You’re secrets are safe, General.”

 

Hux takes a breath, reminds himself that he doesn’t shy away from what must be done. “One of my engineers found a way to patch the hyperdrive. We’re scheduled to arrive sometime tomorrow. I’m sorry, Ren.”

 

Ren’s shoulders sag and his body shakes but there are no tears, only a resigned sigh. “You gave me all the time you could. I’m healed enough to train again.”

 

He wishes Ren would rage, lash out as he used to. Because that, frustrated howls and destroyed consoles and frightened staff he could deal with, but this, this, a Ren looking at him with big, sad eyes and no fight, just the accepting look of a man who know he can no longer outrun his fate, this he has no strategy for.

 

“It’s too soon. I’ll find a way. There must be something I can do,” he argues.

 

“No,” Ren says. Then softer, “No. You’ve given me enough. Three weeks more than I thought I would have. I’m healed. I’m stronger. I will be alright.”

 

 _Liar_ , he thinks.

 

“I’m not lying,” Ren says. “I am stronger.” He clumsily reaches out to grab Hux’s hand, fumbles it up to his face and presses his scarred cheek against Hux’s palm. “I’m stronger when I’m with you. I’ll find a way to carry that with me.” Ren blinks his eyes and now a tear drips out, trails down his face to run along his nose, catch in the valley of it.

 

“You said you couldn’t read my thoughts,” but even as he says it he slides his hand down, cups it around Ren’s chin to tilt his face up.

 

“You wanted me to hear that one. You sent it to me. I told you, I’m stronger when I’m with you.”

 

 _We’re stronger together,_ he thinks, projects the thought, and Ren nods even as he chokes on a sob. _Think of what we could do, together._

 

Ren shakes his head as more tears slip free, the inky spray of his lashes clumping together. “Will you kiss me goodbye?” He opens his eyes steadies his watery eyes at Hux. “You’ve given me more than I deserve, but will you give me this too?,” he asks as he leans close.

 

Hux stops him with a hand to his shoulder, pushes him back.

 

“No,” he denies. “I will not kiss you goodbye Ren,” although his lips ache with the thought of it, even though his fingers would feel so good, so perfect, curled in Ren’s hair, moving him this way and that, guiding Ren’s plush mouth. “I will not kiss you goodbye, because you will come home to me.” Ren leans more heavily into the hand still cupping his face.

 

“Yes,” he promises, “yes. I will. _I will.”_

 

He holds Ren, lets his tears stain the starched collar of his uniform, soothes him with a hand on his back, fingers in his hair. Pulls him close under the covers of his bed, curls their bodies together while he whispers dreams of the galaxy bowing before them, side by side, until Ren falls asleep.

 

In the morning he walks with Ren to the hangar bay, stands with him at the base of the ramp Ren will soon walk up, looks at the doors to the shuttle that will take Ren away from him.

 

“Be well, Ren,” he says, because there are officers and troopers nearby, because the words he wants to say stick to his palette. Because he refuses to kiss Ren goodbye.

 

Ren bends close. “Kylo,” he whispers. “My name is Kylo.”

 

He nods, steps back, and Ren begins his ascent, heavy boots clanging on the metal with each step.

 

 _Be well, Kylo_ , he thinks. _Come home to me._

 

~

 

It becomes part of his routine.

 

When his chrono wakes him he closes his eyes and tries to send the words out into the Force. When he lays down, body exhausted, he pulls forth a last reserve of energy to project the thought.

 

 _Be well, Kylo_ , he tries to broadcast, imagines the words traversing star systems and meteor belts, singed by sun-flares and sent spiralling momentarily off course from the pull of a planet’s gravity until they arrive in Kylo’s mind.

 

 _Come home to me,_ he chants as a silent mantra, measures his steps by the beat of the words as he walks to the bridge.

 

And as the weeks wear on, another. _I miss you._

 

_Be well, Kylo. Come home to me. I miss you._

 

If before he was consumed with Starkiller, with grand visions and the grittier reality of blueprints and schematics now his spare moments are filled not with thoughts of his fearsome weapon but with imaginings of Kylo here, sharing dinner, smiling at his across a chessboard, lying warm beside him, of giving him the kiss Hux denied them both.

 

He’s on the bridge when the message come through.

 

“General, I have a request from Lord Ren. He’s asking permission to land.”

 

“Yes.” He doesn’t run to the Lieutenant who’s speaking, takes a calming breath and thinks _Have you come home to me at last?_ “Of course, allow him access.”

 

He doesn’t rush to the hangar, suddenly reduced to the coward his father always promised he would become, struck suddenly with the thought that Kylo has been gone for months, and what is three weeks of nightly dinners, one night of being pressed close in Hux’s too-small bed, trying to trick himself into thinking Ren was safe in his arms despite knowing what Hux was sending him off to face the next day, compared to long months apart. The Kylo who has returned might not be the one who left.

 

He stays on the bridge, tries to fight the spike of adrenaline that makes the blood pound in his veins, the bitter flood of bile that twists his mouth.

 

Ren finds him there, minutes later, and Hux’s heart twinges when he sees how he staggers, the obvious limp in his walk.

 

“Ren,” he greets, and his voice cracks in a way in never has before, not when he addressed troops by the thousands, negotiated with a blaster pointed at his head. Not when he called for the destruction of the Republic.

 

Ren falls to his knees before him with a sob, uncaring that they have the attention of everyone on shift. “Please,” he says, bows his head until his face is obscured with the curtain of his hair. “Please, don’t call me that.”

 

He reaches out, places a hand in the wild fall of Kylo’s hair and the boy shudders, tension seeping from his shoulders and he tips forward, his forehead resting against Hux’s belly.

 

“Kylo,” he croons. “You came home to me.” Kylo sobs again, nods against Hux’s hip.

 

“I didn’t want to be in pain anymore.” Hux moves him back with a hand in his hair.

 

Whatever weight Kylo had gained is lost again, his face drawn and hollow. He’s dirty, unwashed, the only part of his face not smeared with gore and dust and dirt the parts washed clean by his tears. He’s clutching something, a pile a tattered rags, but when he holds it up as an offering Hux takes it.

 

“I didn’t want to be in pain anymore,” he repeats, voice shaking. “He said, he said it was weakness. But he was wrong. I’m strongest with you. I couldn’t be away from you any longer.”

 

He feels his stomach sink, the same queasy kick he gets when stepping onto a planet where he must readjust to a different level gravity. He peels back the rags to the crescendoing melody of Kylo’s sobs and there, in a filthy shroud too good for it, is Snoke’s lifeless head, the eyes cloudy white, the sunken forehead more sickening in person. And at the neck he knows, too well, the burning aftermath left by a lightsaber.

 

He drops it to the ground, kicks it aside, then kneels, gathers Kylo’s shivering body into his arms, tucks his head against his shoulder. “You came home to me,” he whispers. “You came home to me.”

 

He rocks their bodies, soothes with gentle touches and soft words, uncaring of their audience. Let them look. Let them spread the story of Kylo Ren killing Snoke to return to Hux. Let them tell that General Hux, where all others before him failed, tamed his brave knight with simple touch.

 

Let them watch and know that this, Kylo shaking in his arms, bruised and battered, with his saber on his belt and the head of his master cast aside on the ground, is not a weakness.

 

Let the galaxy know that they are stronger together.

 

When Kylo exhausts himself Hux stands, guides Kylo to stand beside him and takes his hand.

 

 _Together in this,_ he thinks, _as we will be in all things._

 

“Captain,” he addresses to an officer who snaps to attention, elbow knife-sharp and heels clicking as they throw a perfect salute. “Burn that,” he orders, gesturing to the puddle of rags and rotting flesh. “I’d take caution not to touch it.”

 

“Admiral,” he calls to his second. “Contact all other ships in the First Order. Inform them that they no longer take orders from the Supreme Leader.”

 

“Sir?,” she asks.

 

“You heard me, Admiral. As of now, the First Order is under the command of myself and Kylo Ren.”

 

Later, he bathes Kylo. Stretches out in the bathtub his officer’s quarters allow him and pulls Kylo back against his chest in the sweet-smelling water. Lathers his hair and works the knots out with his fingers. Rubs a pungent smelling salve onto his bruises. Dries Kylo off and leads him to his bed, spreads him out and orders him to stay still as Hux trails kisses over every cut, every twinging muscle, every bruise, bites a new one into the crook of Kylo’s shoulder. Praises Kylo, calls him his darling boy, his brave knight. Tells him that Kylo is more radiant than all the combined wonders of the galaxy which will soon be theirs and watches the flush which blossoms over his chest. Finds that the sweet moans he works out of Kylo are even sweeter when he tastes them.

 

But now, here, with his bridge in chaos, he pulls Kylo close.

 

“You’re home now. With me,” he whispers, as he leans in to kiss him.

 

~End

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for making it this far with me! If you enjoyed it pease consider leaving a comment or a kudos. Or come say hi at my tumblr!
> 
> cut-off-the-grain.tumblr.com


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